


it's not ibiza (but it's not too bad)

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Fluffy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Unexpected Visitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 05:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: The jingle of the bell snaps David out of his reverie. “Welcome to Rose Apothecary,” he says to the couple coming through the door in his falsely bright customer service voice. The brief smile that the woman flashes in his direction is awfully familiar, but he can’t exactly place why.It's a perfectly fine Saturday morning at the store until a pair of surprise visitors send David into a panic. Not that that's anything unusual for him.





	it's not ibiza (but it's not too bad)

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to my two wonderful betas, Darcy and LeighAnne, one of whom doesn't even go here and the other of whom graciously let me drag her down into my Schitt's Creek obsession.
> 
> I'm grateful for this show and these boys for capturing my imagination and dragging me through this writing slump I've been in for ages now. I'm looking forward to getting back into the habit, and hopefully that means more fics will be coming your way soon, both in this fandom and in my old Johnlock standby. <3
> 
> Btw, this includes minor references to happenings through "Rock On!", so if you aren't caught up to that part of s5, proceed at your own risk.

Bright, mid-morning sunlight streams in through the windows of Rose Apothecary, glinting on the curves of bottles and jars set out in obsessively straight rows, highlighting the fine patina of dust just beginning to settle on the edges of the shelves and counters. It bathes the store in the kind of calm and quiet that makes David pause to breathe it in, a feather duster hanging limp at his side. He closes his eyes to better focus on the gentle warmth washing across his face and the sweet, earthy scent of their newest line of candles and the way the light rims his eyelids in the most perfect golden-pink color that reminds him of champagne he’d once had on Nicole Kidman’s yacht.

He can hardly imagine a better way to spend a Saturday morning.

Which is kind of insane because he’s spent quite a few Saturday mornings on the veranda of Drake’s guesthouse. And one very memorable Saturday brunch at Shania Twain’s chateau overlooking Lake Geneva.

There’s no way that anything in Schitt’s Creek should really compare. And yet here he is, in a town he’d never wanted to visit, on a path he’d never expected to take, and David thinks that he’s truly happy for probably the first time in his life.

Is it a little sad that he’s made it well into his 30’s before he can say that? Perhaps. But he can hear his boyfriend humming to himself as he opens and sorts their latest shipment in the back storage room, and right now he can think of no place he’d rather be.

Well, maybe Ibiza. But only if Patrick were there, too.

The jingle of the bell snaps David out of his reverie. “Welcome to Rose Apothecary,” he says to the couple coming through the door in his falsely bright customer service voice. The brief smile that the woman flashes in his direction is awfully familiar, but he can’t exactly place why.

He resumes dusting as he considers it, stealing surreptitious glances at the pair as they browse the kitchenware. They definitely aren’t townies; Schitt’s Creek is small, and David’s been here long enough to at least recognize its residents, even if he doesn’t know their names.

Which is kind of a depressing thought.

Living in Schitt’s Creek this long was never part of the plan. Well, there was never a plan to live in Schitt’s Creek at all, but once he’d found himself trapped here, he’d assumed—perhaps naively—that his father would have found a way to free them from this small town hell.

Instead, time had dragged on, and though the town is still a daily assault on his senses, it isn’t all bad. There are things—and he’d only ever admit this to anyone under the extremest duress—that he likes about Schitt’s Creek. Things that he, perhaps, even loves.

This store is one of them. His store. His and Patrick’s store.

His gaze drifts to the banner Patrick had insisted on hanging from the ceiling just this morning, and his lips twist to hide the smile threatening to form there. _First Anniversary!_ Rose Apothecary has made it through an entire year (with David and Patrick not far behind—a thought that sends a thrilling little shiver down David’s spine). There have been some ups and downs along the way, for both them and the store, but both have largely been a success, thanks in no small part to the man still organizing inventory in the back room. Even though David had originally intended to take all this on alone, he isn’t quite sure how he would have done it without Patrick.

He isn’t quite sure how he would do anything without Patrick anymore.

Okay, what has gotten into him this morning? This is all far too sappy for 11 am. Or anyone who isn’t a Disney princess.

He swats the air with the duster as if to shoo the thoughts away, but his eyes dart back to the banner for one more happy glance before he turns his attention back to the familiar couple now examining the hair care display with far too much interest. He hangs the duster on the hook behind the counter and goes to fiddle with the body care products so that he can get a closer look.

Her face is more familiar than his, but David still can’t place either of them. Perhaps some cousin or cousin’s cousin’s cousin of Twyla? What had seemed like two-thirds of her family and their various, uninvited plus-ones had shown up for the store opening. Maybe these two had been amongst them.

But no. From what David can recall (and he has tried awfully hard not to), Twy’s relatives had been a bit more... coarse. Unpolished. Homespun. And these two look, for lack of a better word, normal. Sure, her navy blouse isn’t anything to write home about, and it would look better paired with a lighter pair of jeans, but it’s a respectable if uninteresting ensemble. His polo-and-khakis combo is much the same. No, these two definitely don’t fit what David remembers of Twyla’s family.

As they round the end of the display to look at the produce, he takes the opportunity to dig for a bit of info. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

It’s her eyes, David realizes when they catch on his. He’s seen those eyes, warm and patient and kind, somewhere before.

“Oh, no, thank you,” she says with a polite wave of her hand. “We’re just waiting for our son.”

That must be it. Their son lives in town, and he’s recognizing the vague resemblance. “Oh, who’s your son?”

“David,” comes Patrick’s voice along with the slide of the curtain behind the counter, “we need to order another case of that massage oil that you—”

David turns to find him frozen in the doorway, his face heated in a deep blush.

“Patrick!” The woman steps past David with her arms thrown wide. His head whips back and forth between her and his increasingly tomato-colored boyfriend, and he feels slower than Roland for not picking it up right away.

“Wait, _Patrick_ is your son?”

Patrick manages to find himself again and steps out from behind the counter into his mother’s waiting embrace, before also hugging his father. “What are you guys doing here?”

David can see it now. The line of his father’s nose and the cut of his jaw. The curve of his mother’s mouth and the color of her hair. He should have recognized it immediately: he’s been marveling at a composite of their faces for an entire year now.

“You said it was the big anniversary of your store,” Patrick’s father says, waving a hand toward the banner at which David had been struggling not to smile only moments ago.

“We thought we’d come down for the weekend and see all your hard work.” His mother beams at him, and David turns to fidget with the lip balms, re-straightening their already regimented rows. Happy, healthy families have never exactly been his forte, and he isn’t quite sure how he fits into this little tableau. Has Patrick mentioned him? He’d mentioned the store, so certainly he must have at least told them he doesn’t run it alone. Did he tell them they’re dating? Just friends? Nothing more than business partners? The jumble of possible names for what they are swells up in a wave of panic, breaking in frothy swirls against his ribs.

He’s never met anyone’s parents before. Well, aside from that time Emmanuelle Chriqui’s parents walked in while they were having what they tried to pass off as dessert. But that was obviously different, in so many ways, and he certainly hadn’t expected to have a meet the parents scenario sprung on him today.

Neither, it seems, had Patrick.

“Wow, that’s—” Patrick stammers. “That’s— You didn’t have to—” He clears his throat, and David tries to stealthily wipe off the sweat beginning to form on his palms. Did he brush his teeth this morning? He can’t remember. Why hadn’t he at least had a mint after breakfast? A piece of gum? Anything?

He thinks that maybe he could just make his escape before anyone really notices, but then Patrick is gesturing toward him, and _oh god, this is it._

“Mom. Dad. This, um— This is— This is my, uh—”

The ensuing silence expands between them all like a balloon, sucking up all the oxygen in the room.

“Business partner,” David finishes when he feels on the verge of popping. “Rose. David Rose.” He reaches out to shake their hands in turn, trying not to cringe at himself. “Not like, ‘Bond, James Bond.’ I mean, it’s just David. But, you know, Rose as in, like, Rose Apothecary.” The smile plastered on his face grows brittle and painful as the sea of panic in his chest swells and churns. He needs to get out of here, but he can’t seem to stop rambling. “Which I run. With your son. As business partners.” His eyes dart around frantically, looking everywhere but at Patrick as he tries to find an excuse, any excuse at all, to escape. Across the street the door to Cafe Tropical glints in the sun as someone steps outside, and David latches on to his only option. “I’m just going to, um, grab a coffee. Give you all some time to, you know, catch up. With my— Your son. My business partner.” He risks a glance at Patrick to find his lips moving wordlessly, and he wants to be far, far away from here before they finally find whatever it is they want to say. “It was very nice to meet you,” he says with all the calm and civility he can muster before all but bolting from the store.

Distance. He needs distance.

His feet pound against the pavement as he forces himself not to run back to the motel and away from that absolute disaster. All the happiness he’d felt mere minutes ago seems like it belongs to another person living another life.

Patrick hadn’t said it.

He couldn’t. David hadn’t been sure exactly what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t that. It had come time to be honest, and instead Patrick had been struck speechless with... doubt? Shame? Horror? Some garish, stifling mix of emotions that left him too afraid to even say David’s name, much less make any indication of what they mean to each other.

What David thought they meant to each other.

There may be the sound of a door opening and closing somewhere behind him. There may be the sound of his name like a ghost on the wind. But he doesn’t slow down, and he doesn’t turn around, and in the end no hand catches his arm to stop him from going. His eyes burn and his throat tightens, and he thrusts his hands deep into his pockets to hide the way they shake as he bears his disappointment home.

 

*

 

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Stevie says as David punches the ignore button on his phone once again. He would think Patrick would have gotten the hint by now, but fourteen calls and fifty-seven texts later, he’s still trying.

David glares at Stevie across the frosty expanse of his Christmas mug full of vodka. “And what combination of words could possibly make it okay that he just froze up like Ashlee Simpson on SNL rather than introduce me to his parents?” It’s been several hours and several drinks, and his self-pity is reaching embarrassing new heights.

“If I recall, you didn’t want to tell your parents that you were dating.”

“That was the day after our first date! Not _a year_ later.” He cradles his drink close and takes a sip, letting the burn of it ease some of the tension in his throat. “ _Almost_ a year,” he corrects, the words bitter and miserable on his tongue.

Despite his feelings about celebrating monthly anniversaries, this was a milestone he’d actually been looking forward to. And now they’d never make it there.

“Almost a whole, entire year, Stevie,” he whines, merely an octave away from hysteria. “One might think that would mean something. But no. He said nothing. Just... nothing.” A wild swing of his mug emphasizes his point, sending vodka sloshing over the rim, and he stares at the wet splotch growing on Stevie’s comforter as if it has personally insulted him. “Apparently that’s all I am to him.”

Stevie has the audacity to laugh as she pulls the mug from his hands. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Oh, do we?” he asks, pitching her the most sour look he can muster. Which, regrettably, probably isn’t as effective as it would be had he not already had at least 6 shots worth of vodka; he doesn’t think his eyebrows are quite cooperating with the rest of his face anymore, but he can’t feel them so he can’t be sure.

Stevie rolls her eyes and goes to funnel the remainder of his drink back into the bottle. “Patrick clearly adores you—it’s disgusting. Both of you are.”

“Excuse me. I’m not the one showing everybody the dick pics my boyfriend sends me.”

“First of all,” she says, slapping the empty mug onto the counter, “I didn’t show those pictures to anyone—Roland picked up my phone all on his own. And second of all, Patrick sends you dick pics?”

“Not the point, Stevie.”

“Uh, it’s _kinda_ the point.” She puts the bottle back into the freezer, and David pouts as she closes the door. “He likes you. _Loves you_ , actually.” A moue of distaste crosses her face at the thought. “And I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up, but it’s not like you’re perfect either.”

He grabs the nearest pillow and throws it at her. It misses by several feet. “If I wanted to be insulted, I would have stayed home with Alexis.”

“Well, you’re welcome to leave.” She gestures toward the door.

“It’s the middle of the night! Do you _want_ me to get hit by a car?”

She tosses the pillow back onto the bed and shrugs, but there’s a smirk lingering at the corner of her mouth. “You’re the one who decided to wear all black.”

“Because I’m in mourning, obviously.” He sighs dramatically and collapses back onto the bed, wishing it would swallow him whole and put him out of his misery. He wants it to be over. Not him and Patrick, though that’s clearly done anyway. But the mourning and the heartache and the getting over and the moving on—he wants to yawn and stretch and rub his eyes and have the whole thing fade away like the waking remnants of a bad dream.

The aftermath of a break-up can be such a long, painful process (and he should know—he’s been through more than enough of them), and he just doesn’t want to deal with it. He doesn’t want to find himself. He doesn’t want to learn to love again. He doesn’t want any of the crap fed to single people about valuing their own worth as individuals.

Most of all, he doesn’t want to have to finally take Patrick’s call asking to officially end it. _It was fun while it lasted,_ he’ll say. _We had a great time, but I’ve realized now that this isn’t what I want._ He’ll say he wants to part as friends. To remember their time together fondly. Within a year, he’ll be married to someone else. Maybe he’ll patch things up with Rachel after all, or he’ll finally have dinner with Ken, or he’ll meet some other beautiful, kind, generous person actually worthy of his love, and David will still be here, alone, trapped in Schitt’s Creek with reminders of what he’s lost haunting him from every dingy corner.

It’s a future he’d never pictured for them, and his stomach roils at the thought of it.

Or maybe that’s the vodka.

Probably a bit of both.

The bed shifts beside him, and he opens his eyes to find the room already submerged in darkness as Stevie crawls beneath the covers. Once she gets comfortable, she lies there in the loudest kind of silence, and David can tell she’s bracing herself to say something she doesn’t really want to.

“Look,” she says when she’s finally worked herself up to it, “you have every right to be upset. You really do.” David holds his breath as he waits for the inevitable _but_ he knows is coming. “But he makes you happy. Like, stupidly happy. It seriously makes me want to throw up sometimes.” She turns on her side to face him, and he’s grateful for the darkness that lets him hide a little from her gaze. “I just don’t think you should give up on that so easily.”

“I didn’t give up,” he says. “I just—”

He bites his lips to hold back the rest of that thought. It’s too much. Too honest. Even here under the cover of darkness. But still the corners of his eyes prickle, and his shoulders hitch as he swallows down the knot threatening to escape as a sob.

Suddenly Stevie’s hand is there in his, hesitant but encouraging, and in his surprise the thought that’s been haunting him all day slips free. “I just thought— I thought that, for once, I’d found someone who wasn’t ashamed. Of me. Of... being with me.”

She squeezes his hand until he can gulp down several shaking breaths. When she replies, her voice is more patient than he’s ever heard. “Did he actually say that?”

“No,” he admits, “but why else would he have frozen up like that?” There’s a fragile, trembling edge of hope beneath his words, as if Stevie could somehow have an answer that would make all of this okay. He hates it.

“Maybe you should talk to him and find out.” For a moment, David wonders when she’d gotten so soft, but then she adds, “Or, you know, you could just die alone like the rest of us mere mortals,” and that’s the Stevie he knows and loves.

He tries to shove her off the far side of the bed, but it takes too much effort so instead he lets himself drift off into uneasy sleep.

 

*

 

Sunday arrives in a hungover blur of self-pity and shame. Stevie sends him on his way with the same advice she’d given him last night—”Call him”—but David isn’t so sure she’s right.

Instead he finds excuses to avoid the motel, certain that it’s the most likely place for Patrick to finally corner him and force him into a conversation he’ll never be ready to have. To pass the time, he third-wheels his way through brunch with Alexis and Ted, treats himself to a manicure in Elmdale, and suffers through a Jazzagals rehearsal where his mother tries to revive a gender-swapped musical production of _The Godfather: Part II_ in which she’d once played Freda Corleone.

In all honesty, it’s actually a perfectly average, acceptable weekend. It’s not unlike most of the weekends he’s had since moving to Schitt’s Creek, and if this had been two years ago, he’d be totally fine with that. But it isn’t two years ago, and he’s far from fine. Because it’s been months since he’s spent a weekend without Patrick. He’d begun to think that he’d never have to spend a weekend without Patrick again. They’d never talked about that exactly (and David certainly wasn’t going to be the one to intentionally broach that topic), but when he’d thought about his future, Patrick was always there. Now, instead, there’s an empty, Patrick-shaped hole, and David can’t help the way it leaves him feeling more than a bit off-kilter.

When he can’t find any excuses to avoid it any longer—and because he’ll have to re-wear these clothes tomorrow if he doesn’t at least stop in and pack a bag before heading back to Stevie’s—he stops by the motel.

Alexis is just on her way out as he slips back into their room. She’s unnaturally conciliatory, just as she’d been at brunch this morning, still speaking in soft tones as if he were on his deathbed. It’s somehow infuriating and comforting all at once.

“I’m gonna stay at Ted’s tonight,” she says. “Thought you might want the room to yourself.”

“Oh, well, I’m going back to Stevie’s actually,” he tells her. “But that’s, um... very generous of you. Like, surprisingly so. Did you hit your head?”

She rolls her eyes and swats a hand at him. “Well, it’s just that Ted hasn’t seen _Legally Blonde._ ” She says it with much more of her usual airiness. “Which is, like, practically a crime. Anyway, he promised he’d rent it tonight, so I’m going over there. For that.”

David just manages to stop the fond smile that wants to bloom on his face. “Sure. We wouldn’t want him to miss out on that story about how you stole Reese Witherspoon’s compact at the Fox Golden Globes After Party.”

“Ugh, David!” she squawks, grabbing her overnight bag and stomping toward the door. “You know very well that I didn’t steal it. It just happened to fall out of her handbag and into mine.”

“Mhmm.” He flops down onto his bed and stretches out. Maybe he can risk a tiny depression nap before he goes back to Stevie’s.

“It did, David. You’re just still mad because you couldn’t even get in.”

“Remind me,” he says in the direction of the ceiling. “Didn’t you have to sneak in through the service entrance?” She groans in frustration and rips open the door, and he tries not to laugh. It’s almost too easy to push her buttons, and it makes him feel a bit more himself. “Byeeeee.”

With Alexis gone, quiet settles over the room, and David’s unease returns with it, along with an overwhelming sense of _what now?_ On a typical Sunday evening, he might be unboxing new stock at the store or supervising as Patrick makes dinner. (After he’d made an ill-advised attempt to cook them a romantic meal for Valentine’s Day, they’d both agreed it would be better if he stuck to a purely supervisory role in the future.) He tries to remember what he used to do before Patrick came along, but the entire thought of _before_ sours in his stomach like bad champagne.

He doesn’t want before. And he definitely doesn’t want after.

He wants Patrick.

Patrick with his closet full of blue shirts and his mid-range denim. Patrick with his incorrect shoes and his stupid little rubber things he puts on his fingers.

Patrick with his warm eyes and his gentle hands. With his unshakable sense of responsibility and his unquestioning acceptance of David’s flaws. With his caution and his courage and his generosity.

Patrick with his love, given freely and without hesitation.

Maybe Stevie was right. Maybe he should call.

He thinks back over the last two days, back to the disaster of an introduction that had started all of this. He’d been happy right up until the moment when Patrick had panicked, basking in the morning sunshine, daydreaming about jetting off to enjoy the Mediterranean sun gilding the curves of Patrick’s shoulders, about finding a crowded little club where they could dance until their feet hurt, about ocean breezes, cool drinks, hot days and hotter nights, and the happiness that comes from sharing a favorite place with your favorite person in the world.

He wants that back, that equilibrium.

Maybe he should call Patrick back and see if he’s been wanting to apologize. See if somehow, by some earth-shattering miracle, they can get past this.

Because, yes, Patrick had panicked, but it’s not as if David hasn’t done his fair share of that along the way. And he knows logically that they both had been caught completely off-guard by the sudden appearance of the Brewers yesterday morning, and that it’s entirely Patrick’s decision as to when and where and how he chooses to tell his parents about their relationship.

It’s just that after nearly a year, David would have thought that Patrick would be ready for that day when it came.

It’s that he had thought that maybe they already knew, that Patrick had deemed their relationship important enough to share with his family.

But instead Patrick had just stood there gaping at him like a fish out of water, terrified of admitting the truth. And so David had done his best to make a graceful exit and let Patrick spin whatever fantasy he needed to tell in order to protect himself. Wasn’t that kinder? Not outing him to his family. Not making him face the inevitable shame he would have felt if David had introduced himself as his boyfriend.

Right on the heels of that thought, however, something else Stevie had said last night comes racing back to him. _Did he actually say that?_

And no, of course he hadn’t. He hadn’t said anything at all. David had just filled in the blanks.

What if, he thinks, the tiniest spark of hope flaring brief and hot beneath his breastbone. What if he’d filled them in wrong?

What if that’s not why Patrick had panicked at all? David can’t imagine what other reason there might be, but that’s what Stevie had been trying to tell him, wasn’t it? That it’s a question only Patrick can answer.

It wouldn’t be the first time David had put words in Patrick’s mouth. The very first time they’d met, he’d left Ray’s convinced that Patrick had told him that his business was going to be a failure. Only after talking it through with Stevie had he realized that he himself had been the one to insinuate that. It had been his own fears that he’d projected onto Patrick, and in the end, nothing could have been further from the truth. Patrick had offered to help. Had invested in the store. Had stuck around ever since so that they could run it together.

Oh my god, David realizes. Maybe Stevie’s right.

Maybe he had given up.

Maybe things had gotten weird and awkward and incredibly uncomfortable for what must have been not even five whole seconds, and he’d panicked, made his excuses, cut his losses, and run for the metaphorical hills since Schitt’s Creek doesn’t have any literal ones.

Maybe Patrick hadn’t done anything at all, but David had let his anxiety get the better of him yet again. Because as much as he’s tried to allow himself to be open and vulnerable and honest, maybe there’s still that broken and bruised part of him always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And that ever-expanding silence, as Patrick had stood there unwilling or unable or unready to offer up the truth, maybe that had felt like a pretty fucking big steel-toe boot hanging over his head.

And in his rush to get out of the way before it crushed him, like he’d known it inevitably would, maybe he’d left Patrick behind instead to get trampled under the weight of David’s insecurities.

The realization feels like finally breaking the surface after kicking up from the depths, his lungs burning with need.

Maybe he’d sabotaged his own happiness with all his uncertainty.

But he _is_ certain. That’s the absolute stupidest thing about it. In spite of his issues and his flaws and the long arms of his past that still try to drag him down, he is unequivocally, categorically, two hundred thousand percent sure that he loves Patrick more than he thought was humanly possible.

And there is nothing that he is going to allow to stand in the way of that. Especially not himself.

So what if Patrick wasn’t ready to tell his parents? So what if he panicked? David still loves him. He still wants him.

He wants Patrick and all that he is, even the parts that might be anxious or unsure or hesitant. He wants Patrick with all of his strengths and all of his faults. He wants Patrick the way Patrick wants him—wholly, honestly, unreservedly, desperately. Without condition and without judgment and without even a single ounce more doubt.

And that means he has to let it all go. Because he’s the only one who can.

If Patrick isn’t ready to tell his parents, David can wait.

If Patrick is afraid of how they might respond when he finally does, David will be there by his side, holding his hand, letting him know that they’re going to be fine either way.

If Patrick needs time or space or a break from David’s particular brand of insanity, David will give it to him. Because that’s what it means to trust someone. To love someone. And David Rose absolutely and unquestionably loves Patrick Brewer.

He’s on his feet in an instant, his head swinging from side to side, frantic. What is he supposed to do with this realization? Should he call? Text? Rush out to find Patrick and kiss him until neither of them can breathe?

Before he can decide, there’s a sound from outside that freezes him where he stands.

At first he thinks he must be imagining it, but it grows louder as it goes on. No, not louder exactly. Closer.

It’s the bright twang of a guitar, and then suddenly a voice he’d know anywhere.

 _Baby_  
_It’s been a long day, baby_

He finally manages to make his feet move, rushing to the window to peek through a tiny crack in the blinds.

 _Things ain’t been going my way_  
_You know I need you here_  
_You clear my mind all of the time_

The sight of Patrick, standing in the grass in front of the motel, nearly knocks him over. He’s awash in purples and blues, painted in the soft, cool colors of the sky rapidly darkening after sunset, though the dim bulb outside the lobby glints auburn in his hair and chestnut on the curves of the guitar in his hands.

Two days. Not even a full two days, and yet David can feel the way his blood thrums faster in his veins at the sight of him, like the very cells of his body had been left sluggish and sullen in Patrick’s absence.

 _And baby_  
_The way you move me, it’s crazy_  
_It’s like you see right through me_  
_And make it easier_

David steps back from the blinds and laughs, mostly at himself. Not so long ago he’d been horrified at the thought of being serenaded in public. But here Patrick is, singing for him in front of the entire, booked-to-capacity motel, and all he feels is lucky. And proud. And absolutely head-over-heels in love with this incredible, beautiful, talented man.

 _Believe me, you don’t even have to try_  
_Oh because_

He pulls open the door and collapses against the door frame, relief and joy and a fierce rush of affection crashing through him. And for once, he doesn’t grimace or squirm or throw up his eyebrows like a wall of distaste behind which he can hide. He just stands in the doorway and allows himself to give in to the moment. Because Patrick is here, somehow, in the same moment David had meant to find him.

 _You are the best thing_  
_You are the best thing_  
_You are the best thing_  
_That ever happened to me_

The smile that stretches across his lips is sweet and unfettered.

 _Baby_  
_We’ve come a long way_

Patrick takes a few steps closer, his eyes locked on David’s. David knows him well enough to see the sliver of hesitance lingering there, but it only makes David more certain.

 _And baby_  
_You know I hope and I pray that you believe me_  
_When I say this love will never fade away_  
_Because_

He risks a glance up and down the walkway to find most of the other motel guests also standing in their doorways enjoying the impromptu show.

 _You are the best thing_  
_You are the best thing_  
_You are the best thing_  
_That ever happened to me_

His parents’ doorway is one of the few unopened and unoccupied, and he thanks god for minor miracles that they’re apparently out for the evening. As much as he finds he isn’t embarrassed by this serenade, he doesn’t need his family to see it either.

Just the other side of where Stevie is leaning out of the lobby, however, are two other familiar faces. Patrick’s mother and father, hand-in-hand, are beaming at both David and their son, now separated by only the concrete expanse of the walkway. David blushes but returns their smiles before turning his attention back to his over-the-top sap of a boyfriend as he finishes out his song.

 _Both of us have known love before_  
_To come on up promising like a spring_  
_To walk on out the door_  
_Our words are strong, and our hearts are kind_  
_Let me tell you just exactly what’s on my mind_

 _You are the best thing_  
_You are the best thing_  
_You are the best thing_  
_That ever happened to me_

The last strains of the guitar fade away into the balmy evening air, and a few of the guests offer up their applause before turning back to their own rooms and their own affairs. Patrick doesn’t seem to notice them, his gaze unwavering from David’s.

The silence between them buzzes with possibility.

“Hi,” David breathes. “Do you want to come in?”

Several emotions flash across Patrick’s face, too quick to identify. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, I do.”

David steps aside to let him into the room and closes the door behind them. He's here, David thinks. Patrick is really here. His heart hammers against his ribs, beating out the sound of Patrick's name flowing in his veins.  
  
Patrick sets his guitar on Alexis’s bed. When he looks up again, there’s clearly something he wants to say, but the silence between them spools out for several seconds longer before he can seem to find the words. Unlike yesterday, David gives him the time to find them. “David, I owe you an explanation."  
  
David almost laughs, it reminds him so strongly of another fight they’d had in this same room months ago. “You don’t,” he says instead. “You don’t need to explain yourself at all.”

He looks at Patrick’s hands on his hips, and his fingers twitch with the urge reach out and put his hands in the same place, to feel the sturdy frame of Patrick’s bones between them, solid and real. To think he almost lost this.

Patrick shakes his head. “You know you don’t have to say that just because you think it’s what you’re supposed to say.”

This time David does laugh: a short huff of good humor. “No,” he says. “No, I mean it. You don’t have to explain anything.” He steps closer, pressing forward just enough that he could pull Patrick into his arms if he wanted to, though he resists for now. “I think— I think I’m the one who owes you an explanation.”

“What? No, David, I—”

“Patrick, I’m sorry.” The apology strikes Patrick silent, his confusion clear in his eyes, and David rushes on before he can lose his nerve. It’s important that he say this. “I’m the one who panicked. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was afraid and I panicked and I ran. And I’m sorry.”

“Afraid?” Patrick shakes his head again, still not following. “What were you afraid of?”

“I, um—” David’s eyes dart around the room, and he takes a deep breath. When he meets Patrick’s eyes again, he breathes it all out—his nerves and his restraint and his fear of being seen for who he really is. “I thought that maybe you were, um, ashamed. Of me, I mean. I thought that maybe that’s why—”

It’s Patrick’s turn to laugh, but it’s a sound of pure relief, like David has punched out all the tension he’s been carrying in his chest. “No,” he says, reaching out to find David’s hands. “That’s not— No.”

David’s never been so happy to be proven wrong in his life. “No, I know that now,” he goes on. “That’s just, like, why I left yesterday. But I know you just weren’t ready to tell them, and that’s fine, it’s—”

“Also wrong,” Patrick interrupts, stopping David in his tracks.

“Um... Okay?”

Patrick’s hands come up to clasp around his back, holding him in place like he thinks David might run again, but there’s no other place he would rather be than right here in Patrick’s arms. “My parents know about us.”

“Uh, yeah,” David replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I think the whole motel knows about us after your little open mic session outside.”

“No, I mean they’ve known for months.” Patrick’s smile grows brighter and impossibly more beautiful. “They know about our first date and how you didn’t realize that it even was a date until Stevie clued you in. They know how hard I tried to get you back after you found out about Rachel. They know that I gave you a key to my apartment. They know that I love you and that I have never been happier than I’ve been this last year with you.”

David’s brows draw together as he shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Then why—”

“Because,” Patrick says, “I went to introduce you as my boyfriend, and I suddenly realized that the word was wrong.” His smile softens into something a little sweeter, a little shyer. “That word, it’s not— It’s not big enough for what you are to me. Not for a long time now.”

David can feel his heart beating in his throat. He thinks he knows what Patrick is saying—thinks he knows because he’s been feeling the same way for months now—but he wants to be sure this time. He doesn’t want to put any more words into Patrick’s mouth. “So if I had let you say what you wanted to say,” he asks, cautious and measured, “that would have been what exactly?”

Patrick looks at him, all his love and his honesty and his vulnerability writ large for David to see, and David could kick himself for ever thinking it was even remotely possible for Patrick to have been ashamed of him. Patrick had told him months ago that he needs to learn to trust people, and apparently he’s still been doing a pretty poor job of it. He vows to himself to do better. Patrick deserves better. They both do.

The arms around him squeeze in a little tighter, holding him a little closer. “I would have said, ‘This is David, and he’s the love of my life.’”

A tickle rises in the back of David’s throat, and as much as he tries to force himself not to look away for once, not to hide from the intensity of what he feels, the admission is overwhelming, and he fidgets in Patrick’s grasp, turning his head to either side to look behind him.

“What are you doing?” Patrick asks, clear amusement humming underneath the question.

“Just checking to make sure there’s not someone else back there that you might be talking about.”

Patrick’s laugh is a wonderous thing. “You honestly think there’s someone else named David standing behind you?”

“There could be. I don’t know!”

“Well are you gonna kiss me,” Patrick teases, “or do I need to get the other David to do that?”

“Oh, no, I think I can handle that part,” David says, leaning in. Patrick meets him halfway, both of them giggling against each other’s mouths. David loves this; he’s never kissed anyone but Patrick this way, with joy bubbling on their tongues, wonder building on their breath.

When they’ve kissed their apologies into each other’s mouths, David reaches for some more of that honesty he’d found earlier. “You, um, you know that— that I feel the same, right?”

“Wouldn’t hurt to hear you say it.”

“Well,” David says, “to paraphrase this town’s most talented amateur singer-songwriter—”

“Wait,” Patrick interrupts, “you do know I didn’t write that song, right? It’s a Ray LaMontagne song.”

“Not the point,” David says, pressing a finger to his mouth to silence him. Patrick plants a quick kiss on his fingertip, and David wrinkles his nose at how ridiculous and adorable it is. “Patrick, you are... the absolute best thing that has ever, ever happened to me.” He can feel the blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks, but he pushes himself onward. For Patrick. Because he deserves back all the sincerity he’s offered David from the first moment they met. And when he goes on, the words are quieter, stripped bare by his vulnerability. “Yes,” he says, “you are, without a single doubt, the love of my life, too.”

Patrick’s eyes shine wetly, and David knows he must look the same. “Thank you,” Patrick says, and he brushes the softest, sweetest kiss against the corner of David’s mouth, leaving the patch of skin there tingling with the tenderness of it.

“You know,” David says, clearing his throat and offering up a crooked smirk, “this doesn’t mean you can just sing a song at me every time you think you’ve fucked up.”

Patrick laughs and kisses him again. “Can’t I though?”

David leans away and swats a playful hand at him. He knows damn well he’ll listen to any apology Patrick wants to sing him, but hopefully there won’t be any need for another performance any time soon. He can’t resist ribbing him a bit though. That’s just part of who they are, and David wouldn’t want it any other way. “If I recall, last time you wanted to apologize, I also got chocolate. And flowers. And a bracelet…”

“I didn’t realize the love of my life was so materialistic.”

“Um, have we met?” David throws up his hands in mock exasperation. “I’m gonna need at least four olive branches for this. Each more expensive than the last.”

Patrick clicks his tongue in disapproval and pulls David back to him. “Greedy greedy,” he says before kissing David soundly enough to leave him a little weak in the knees.

He’s relieved to be back in the familiar territory of their usual rapport. They’re going to be alright, he thinks. “Yes, well, fortunately for you, it’s two-for-one night at the cafe, and I am willing to accept dinner as my first olive branch.”

“Wow, that’s very generous of you.”

“I know. I’m practically a saint.” David smoothes down Patrick’s collar and plants a brief kiss on his nose, just because he can. “Now come on, the love of your life is hungry.”

Patrick shakes his head but takes David’s hand and follows him toward the door. “You’re going to be stuck on that for a while, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“If I recall correctly—and I do because it was only two minutes ago—you also said it.”

“Mmm, doesn’t sound like me. I think that must have been the other David.”

Patrick laughs, a fond, warm thing David will never tire of hearing. They open the door and step out into the night, David letting his smile slip out into the darkness like a happy little secret.

Yes, they’re definitely going to be alright.

  

  

  

**Author's Note:**

> "You Are the Best Thing" is one of my all-time favorite songs, and I'm always looking for excuses to put it in fics. In case you've somehow never heard it, [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJ3xTjvj9tw) the original, and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMe6FNn5yVQ) is what I imagine Patrick's version sounds more like.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as [wild-aloof-rebel](http://wild-aloof-rebel.tumblr.com) (my Schitt's Creek blog) or [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com) (my main).


End file.
